It has, I know, been said that botanists
"Love not the flower they pluck and know it not.
And all their botany is but Latin names."
Contrast this, however, with the language of one who would hardly claim to
be a master in botany, though he is certainly a loving student.
"Consider," says Ruskin, "what we owe to the meadow grass, to the covering
of the dark ground by that glorious enamel, by the companies of those
soft, countless, and peaceful spears of the field! Follow but for a little
time the thought of all that we ought to recognize in those words. All
spring and summer is in them--the walks by silent scented paths, the rest
in noonday heat, the joy of the herds and flocks, the power of all
shepherd life and meditation; the life of the sunlight upon the world,
falling in emerald streaks and soft blue shadows, when else it would have
struck on the dark mould or scorching dust; pastures beside the pacing
brooks, soft banks and knolls of lowly hills, thymy slopes of down
overlooked by the blue line of lifted sea; crisp lawns all dim with early
dew, or smooth in evening warmth of barred sunshine, dinted by happy feet,
softening in their fall the sound of loving voices.
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